Castiel's No Good Very Bad Day
by Aini NuFire
Summary: Prompt: Cas gets arrested. And that's only the final straw to a very long and trying day. One shot


**A/N: This is in response to an anonymous request on tumblr for a fic where Cas gets arrested for some reason and Dean and Sam have to bail him out. I took it a little farther than that, as you can probably guess from the title, hehehe. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!**

 **Disclaimer: The show and characters aren't mine. AU setup of 12x15 "Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell" and the beginning scene has lines from that episode.**

* * *

"Castiel's No Good Very Bad Day"

Castiel entered the small diner and looked around before consulting the tabloid magazine in his hand. According to the headline, the owner of this establishment was claiming that his waitress had been killed by aliens. The death was real, as was the sensationalized photo on the front page, but Castiel was more concerned about the fact that it showed a pair of angel wings scorched into the ground of a back alley.

Looking around nervously once more, he approached the counter and withdrew his badge. "Hello. I'd like to speak to your manager if I could."

The waitress's brows knitted together in confusion as she peered at his FBI credentials. Why did it seem as though everyone he interviewed had vision problems?

"Hiya!" A short man interrupted as he jogged over. "Hey." With a dismissive smile to the waitress, he turned to Castiel. "I'm Herb Nelson, I run this joint. Pleasure to meet you…" He craned his head as Castiel held up his badge again. "Agent…Salage."

Frowning, Castiel glanced at the credentials, and then mentally rolled his eyes at himself to find that it was upside down. He quickly stuffed it back in the fold of his coat. "I'm, uh, I'm here about…"

"Oh, I- I know," Herb interjected. "Why you're here. Uh, follow me." He surreptitiously cocked his head toward the back. "Quietly."

Castiel just stared at him for a moment, not entirely sure this man was of sound mind, but he had no other leads at the moment, and clearly an angel _had_ been killed out back, so Castiel decided to suck it up and follow.

Herb led him past the kitchen and to a large metal door, which the small man struggled to open, letting out a grunt as he managed it. Castiel stepped through, noting the three deadbolts on the inside.

"What is this?" he asked, sweeping his gaze around the cluttered storage room/office.

The door creaked shut, followed by the bolts being slid into place.

"Well, you know, ungh, can't be too careful," Herb said. "They're always watchin'. Listening."

Castiel gazed around the various clippings plastered on the wall, doubting coming in here more and more. "'They' are?" he repeated, unable to keep the obvious cynicism from his voice. Herb didn't seem to notice.

"Oh yeah," he said. "We're safe in here." He banged a fist on the thick slab of the door, eliciting a whimper. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth. "Reinforced steel. Nothin's getting through this sucker." He came around to sit behind the desk.

"Erm, yeah," Castiel mumbled. He edged over to the wall and leaned in to inspect a poster of some people's heads cut out and taped to extraterrestrial bodies. Which…was completely anatomically inaccurate.

"So, uh, you're here about Sarah," Herb said soberly.

Castiel's heart twinged at the sincere note of grief in the man's voice. "Yes. Your waitress. In this article, you said, uh, you said that she was killed by an alien."

Castiel supposed allowances could be made for people who didn't know angels existed. Still, the man's exuberance about the topic was…not encouraging.

"Well, not just aliens," Herb clarified. "Reptilians."

Castiel stared at him blankly.

"You know, like the Queen of England."

Castiel grimaced. "Right." This was a complete waste of time. "Okay, well that's very helpful. Thank you so much for your time," he said hurriedly, and turned to make his escape.

"An-and I got proof!" Herb called after him. There was a clatter of desk drawers and rifling through contents "Um…"

Castiel stopped at the door and hung his head. Oh, how he wanted to be anywhere else but here at this moment.

"You know…see?"

Castiel turned around to find Herb holding up a tape.

"Most people can't handle the truth, but not me. I'm woke."

Castiel bit back a sigh, resigning himself to the situation. He'd come all this way; he might as well be thorough.

"It's, uh, why I don't use new tech," Herb prattled on as he went to a television monitor. "Anything past '96, it's a trap." He put the cassette in an old camcorder, then paused to turn to Castiel. "You know, palm pilot, it's more like tracking device. Am I right?"

Castiel lifted his eyes to the ceiling before replying, "Right." Best to play along with these types of people.

Herb smiled. "Exactly." He fiddled with the television as the screen filled with white noise and static. "Now watch this."

Castiel waited, but nothing was happening. Herb flicked a nervous glance at him, and then gave the monitor a good slap. The screen jerked before bringing up a black and white image of the back alley.

"Now, here we go."

Castiel came closer, spine straightening as he spotted Kelly Kline stumbling into the alley, someone in a suit following on her heels.

"Okay, now I don't know who she is," Herb said. "Probably another alien."

Castiel watched as Kelly skidded to a halt.

"She's preggers, so my money's on…brood queen. Now, I don't know who he is, either."

Castiel tuned out Herb's commentary, narrowing his eyes on the video feed. The man and the waitress were cornering Kelly in the alley, and Castiel suspected they were angels. No one else would have cause to hunt Kelly Kline like this. Yes, there was one of them brandishing an angel blade.

But then a fourth figure came storming into the alley. The angel in the suit turned and attacked, but the image cut back to snow.

"Yeah," Herb sighed. "The video camera got fried. But you saw it, right?" He pressed a button to rewind the tape. "Right, there."

Castiel saw it, alright.

"She has—"

"Yellow eyes," he finished, gut clenching with dread at the realization.

"Like I said, reptilian."

Castiel moved to the camera, trying to figure out how to remove the tape. Herb was rattling on some more, but Castiel ignored him. With tape in hand, he turned and headed for the door. He had a solid lead now.

But it was in no way reassuring. Ramiel had said his sister, Dagon, had taken an interest in Lucifer's child, and apparently she had succeeded in locating Kelly Kline. Castiel didn't for a moment believe that Dagon had the human woman's wellbeing in mind; Kelly was only an incubator in the eyes of Lucifer and any other demon loyal to him. But with Dagon in the picture, that made Castiel's efforts to find Kelly even more complicated.

He exited the diner and returned to his truck where he considered what his next course of action should be. Kelly had been here only a couple of days prior, and may not have gone far. Where would Dagon take her? Probably somewhere isolated to try staying off the angels' radar.

Castiel turned the key in the ignition and veered onto the road, heading toward the outskirts of town. He would do some reconnaissance of abandoned buildings where a high profile demon might hide out, and if he did happen to locate Kelly with Dagon, then he would have to evaluate his options. He was not foolish enough to confront a Prince of Hell by himself; his experience with Ramiel was a vivid and fresh reminder of how well such an attempt would go. But he didn't want to call Sam and Dean until he'd confirmed that Kelly was, in fact, in the area, so as not to waste their time on a dead end lead.

He drove through the old warehouse district, guiding his truck around to the end where several buildings had been sectioned off with a rickety, chain-link fence sporting various realtor signs. Castiel parked along the edge and got out, eyes peeled as he surveyed the area. Everything seemed quiet.

There was a gap in the fence where someone had taken a pair of snips to it, and Castiel pried apart one side to slip through. His coat snagged on a jagged prong, tearing one of the seams. With an inward sigh, he decided not to bother repairing the coat at the moment, and quickly collected himself before heading toward the nearest building. The door was hanging slightly ajar, but Castiel didn't hear any sounds from within. Still, he approached cautiously, poking his head through the gap before gently nudging the door open all the way. Nothing within stirred.

Castiel doubted anyone was there, but he thought it best to take a look around anyway. As he ventured further in, he caught sight of a sigil painted on a support column. Perhaps Dagon had been here after all.

He moved closer to examine what it was. Not a ward to keep out angels, or Castiel would have felt its power. Too late, he recognized it as one half of a set, and the sigil lit up with a sizzle and smolder as it was activated. A concentrated burst of energy speared Castiel from polar sides, instantaneous and brief, but it stole his breath and left static tingles racing all along his vessel. His grace was completely numb.

Footsteps had him whirling around, which made him dizzy for a second, and when his vision cleared, he found himself facing down two demons that had emerged from around a large shipping container.

"What do we have here?" one of them clucked. "Looks like a little birdie got snared in our net."

The second grinned lasciviously. "Dagon was right that some more halos might come snooping around."

And the Prince of Hell had left a trap. Castiel mentally kicked himself for falling into it, and dropped his angel blade into his hand. His grace might be temporarily anesthetized and unreachable, but he could still take on two lowly demons.

"Where is Kelly Kline?" he demanded.

The first demon smirked. "Not here."

They both rushed him at once, apparently not given to monologuing as so many villains tended to do. Castiel slashed his blade, scoring a gash across one demon's chest. That one screamed and jerked away, but the other slammed into Castiel, driving him back against the support pillar with enough force to make a dull crack. Castiel head-butted him, knocking the demon back a step. Flipping his blade around, he plunged it into his assailant's chest. Eyes blew wide as orange lightning spritzed throughout his skeleton.

Before Castiel could yank his blade out, however, the remaining demon tackled him, propelling them both to the ground. Castiel rolled with the momentum, as did the demon. Hands latched around his throat and squeezed. But if the demon thought that sigil made Castiel weak, it was sorely mistaken.

He shoved his arms up between the demon's and pushed outward, dislodging the demon's grip on his neck. The demon snarled and scrambled away to regain his feet, then made a dash for the angel blade still sticking out of his companion.

Castiel jumped up and quickly adjusted his strategy now that the demon had his blade, and thereby the upper hand. He held his ground when the demon lunged, jerking his torso to the side at the last second. As the blade thrust past him, Castiel captured the demon's hands in his own, then torqued the blade down and around, up into the demon's chest. Ocher flashes exploded throughout his face as he let out a garbled gasp.

Castiel let the body drop with a thud, and then pivoted in search of more demon reinforcements. None came. After several moments poised tensely, Castiel finally allowed himself to take a breath, and turned his focus inward. When he reached for his grace, it didn't stir, still benumbed by the sigil's power. The effects would wear off eventually, but it was still a minor irritation. Not as much as it would have been in the past, though; Castiel had had plenty of practice operating on low power.

He roved his gaze around the warehouse. Dagon and Kelly were obviously long gone, and Castiel had no idea where to begin searching next. He canted his head thoughtfully at the dead demons. Their loyalty to Dagon implied loyalty to Lucifer as well, something Crowley would not be pleased with. And if Crowley could identify these two, perhaps he could make a guess at who else might have allied themselves with the Prince of Hell. Crowley's original deal may have been to leave all the Princes alone, but if Dagon was actively working against him, then Crowley certainly wouldn't let that stand.

Castiel reached into his pocket for his phone to call said King of Hell, but when he pulled it out, he stared in dismay at the spider-web crack covering the screen. He pushed the Home button, but nothing happened. Brow furrowing, he tried the power button next, but still the screen remained dark.

Castiel's shoulders sagged. It must have broken in the scuffle. Now he would have to go back to town and find a payphone to contact the Winchesters about wiring him cash so he could buy a new one. And ask for Crowley's number, since he didn't have it memorized. He should remedy that.

Casting a reluctant look at having to leave the bodies here, Castiel tucked his phone and angel blade away, and headed back to his truck. On his way through the fence, the _other_ side of his coat snagged and tore, which at this point was simply adding insult to injury. What was even worse was Castiel was no longer able to fix it at the moment, thanks to that sigil.

He shambled back to his truck and climbed in. He wasn't even sure he could call this day a success, even though he had found where Kelly had _been_ ; it didn't help him if the lead ran cold. He had to think positive, though, and hope that Crowley would have some insight into who might be working with Dagon.

Halfway back to town, the truck suddenly let out a guttering cough and lurched. Castiel cranked the wheel sharply to steer onto the side of the road, tires crunching over gravel as he glided to a stop. He hadn't even had to press the brake, as the engine had completely lost power.

For a moment, Castiel just sat there, and then dropped his forehead against the top of the steering wheel. Could this day get any worse?

With a grimace, he got out and went around to open the hood. Hissing steam spewed up, and Castiel jerked away as it stung his face. He waved a hand to clear it, and stared morosely at the various compartments, tubes, and engine parts that he had no idea what to make of. He couldn't even begin to fathom where to look for the problem, let alone how to fix it.

He slipped his hand into his pocket to finger his busted phone. No grace, no way to call for assistance…the universe had to be mocking him.

Castiel remained standing over the steaming engine for several minutes longer before he finally accepted that there was nothing he could do, and that it wasn't going to magically fix itself. He would have to walk the rest of the way back to town, and then either steal another car, or ask the Winchesters to come get him. Neither of which appealed to him.

He cast one last forlorn look at the truck before turning away. It wasn't that he had any particular attachment to it—nothing could replace his first vehicle—but it had been sturdy and useful, and procuring another one was a hassle he didn't really have the energy or patience for after what had turned out to be a very disappointing day.

By the time Castiel reached the town, the sun had set, and a brisk chill had descended. Not that the cold bothered him, even with grace subdued. He strode down the sidewalks, searching for a place he would find a phone. He passed a payphone, but just his luck, he didn't have any quarters on his person.

As he came to the curb and was about to step into the crosswalk, a vehicle without its headlights on made a sharp right turn, tires sloshing through a puddle of standing water in the gutter. Cold, muddy liquid splattered Castiel's pants and the bottom of his trench coat. The car sped away, oblivious.

Castiel blinked dubiously as he glanced down at himself. Well, he supposed it could have been worse, if the car had actually hit him.

That didn't make him feel as better as it should have.

At last, he found a liquor store and trudged inside. The chimes above the door jingled, drawing the clerk's attention. It was an older man with age lines and glasses, and he wrinkled his nose at Castiel's appearance.

"Hello," Castiel said, trying to sound friendly and normal. "Um, my car broke down. May I use your phone to call someone?"

The clerk gave him one more quick once-over before apparently deciding he was not a vagrant. "Sure."

He picked up a black telephone from the counter behind him and moved it to the checkout counter. Castiel gave the man a grateful smile, and was glad he had at least Dean's number memorized. Small blessings.

He had just picked up the receiver when the door chimes gave a discordant jangle as two men came bursting in, both with hoodies pulled up over their heads and bandanas tied around the lower half of their faces. One pointed a handgun at the clerk while the other waved a shotgun around the rest of the store.

"Give us the cash!" the first shouted at the clerk.

Castiel could only stare dumbly, unable to process for a moment that this was actually happening. The clerk's hands were shaking as he fumbled to open the register while the gunmen continued to yell and scream at him. The one with the shotgun whirled toward Castiel, putting the barrel right in his face.

"You! Give me your wallet!"

Castiel gritted his teeth. "I don't have time for this," he growled. He grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and cranked it upward, bending the metal at a ninety-degree angle. The robber's eyes flew wide, and Castiel then flung him aside.

His partner panicked and started firing his weapon. Castiel surged forward and sucker-punched him so hard that he slammed against the counter before instantly crumpling like a sack of bones.

Glass smashed against the back of his head, showering Castiel in tepid liquid. He slowly turned around to face the first gunman, who was holding a broken bottle in one hand and gaping at him with wide, flabbergasted eyes. Castiel delivered a ruthless right hook that sent him flying backward into the display rack of liquor, shattering all the bottles and drenching the robber in their amber contents.

Castiel gazed down dispassionately at his unconscious form. The pungent aroma of whiskey wafted up, and Castiel realized his own trench coat was also soaked with alcohol. In a burst of irritation, he whirled back to the counter so sharply that the clerk jerked back against the wall and cowered there fearfully.

Castiel heaved a sigh. "Are you alright?"

The older man's throat bobbed, but he gave a shaky nod. Castiel turned to the phone, only to stop and stare in stupefaction. One of the bullets the second gunman had managed to get off had struck the cradle, completely obliterating the phone. Castiel lifted his gaze to the ceiling. Unbelievable.

He spun on his heel and stormed out of the store, leaving the clerk to deal with the mess. He'd hit the two gunmen hard enough that they wouldn't be seeing straight for a week, so the older gentleman wouldn't be in any danger of them waking up before police arrived. Castiel still needed to find a phone, but at this point, he was just so done.

He came across a park a few blocks away, and found a bench where he could just sit down. Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and focused on the sounds of the crickets in the bushes and the faint, almost inaudible rustle of the chilled night air through the leaves. He wished there wasn't so much light pollution to dim the stars, as Castiel had always found looking at them relaxing.

He let himself sink into a dormant, restful state, becoming so still that he could have melded with the park bench like a statue. He would just sit here and wait for his grace to recover from the spell before he attempted anything else.

Castiel lost all sense of time and space, until blinding light suddenly exploded across his eyelids. Snapping his eyes open, he squinted to see past the harsh beams being directed at him.

"Hey, buddy," someone said, tone calm and authoritative. "You can't sleep in the park."

Castiel raised an arm to shield his face, and managed to catch a glimpse of two figures in what appeared to be officer uniforms. "I don't sleep," he replied.

One of the men slowly came closer, but with his flashlight still trained on Castiel, the angel couldn't make out much of his features.

"Whew, you hit the bottle a little hard tonight, huh?" the guy said.

Castiel frowned, wondering if these officers had tracked him down from the liquor store. "The bottle hit me."

The men exchanged a look Castiel couldn't decipher, and then one of them was gesturing to him with his flashlight. "Alright, let's go. You can spend the night in the drunk tank."

"I'm not drunk," he corrected. Obviously.

"Come on, man, it's pretty cold. This way you at least get off the street for a night."

Castiel rose to his feet, stumbling slightly as circulation abruptly returned to his legs. "I'm not affected by the cold," he tried to explain.

One of the patrolmen snorted. "Because you're completely smashed."

Castiel huffed in exasperation. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? "Um, I'm- I have a badge…" He started to pat down his pockets in search of the FBI credentials, but he couldn't seem to find them.

The cop closest to him stepped forward, and before Castiel could react, he'd snapped a metal bracelet around his wrist.

"No, wait—"

The cop deftly tugged his other arm behind his back and cuffed that wrist as well. Castiel felt a jolt of panic and burst of adrenaline, but if he tried to fight back with brute strength alone, he might end up hurting these humans. And, unfortunately, his grace wasn't recovered enough to simply wipe their memories of coming across him.

"We're doing you a favor," the officer said as he started guiding Castiel out of the park and toward the street where a patrol car was parked.

Castiel tried to think of how else he could convince these men that they were making a mistake, but everything he said seemed to be brushed off as the ravings of a delusional drunk. He was gently tucked into the back of the police car, and at that point, Castiel simply slumped in abject defeat. Maybe he _would_ 'sleep it off,' because this had been an absolutely wretched day and he just wanted it to be over.

* * *

Dean's phone lit up with an unfamiliar number, and he hesitated only a brief second before deciding to pick up. They'd just wrapped up the hellhound case in Nebraska, but this area code didn't match Sheridan County. "Hello?" he said neutrally.

"Hello, is this Agent Stills?"

Dean frowned. He didn't remember using that alias on another case recently, nor could he place the voice on the other end of the line. "Yes it is," he answered anyway.

"This is Officer Ryan with the Coeur D'Alene Police Department in Idaho. I found your card in the possession of a gentleman we have in lockup. I'm sorry to bother you with this, but he hasn't given us a name and didn't have any identification on him. It'd be really helpful if we could contact a friend or family member. He's six feet, got dark hair, blue eyes."

Dean blinked dumbly for a moment. "Uh, was he wearing a tan trench coat?"

"Yes. So, you do know him?" the officer said, sounding hopeful.

"Yeah. He alright?" Dean asked worriedly. "What was he arrested for?" Hopefully not for impersonating an FBI agent…Sam said he'd helped Cas redo his alias after the Beyonce thing.

"Officially, drunk and disorderly. But mostly he just seemed like a guy down on his luck. We're letting him sleep it off in the drunk tank." The officer paused for a beat. "Um, he mentioned having a badge, but he didn't actually have one on him. But if he really is your colleague…"

Dean was still stuck on Cas being arrested for _drunk and disorderly_ , but he quickly gave himself a sharp shake. "Uh, yeah. He's been working undercover recently."

Officer Ryan made a thoughtful, sympathetic sound. "That's stressful work."

So was hunting the mother of Lucifer's baby, but it wasn't liable to make Cas go on a bender.

"Look, I don't want to get anyone in trouble. We've all been there. I can keep him listed as a John Doe, but it'd probably be good if someone came and got him, so he doesn't end up back on the street again."

Wait, Cas was not only drunk, but he was _on the street_? What the hell had happened up there? And why hadn't Cas called Dean and Sam if he was having trouble?

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear to glance at the time, then did a quick mental calculation in his head. "Um, it's gonna take me at least twelve hours to get there." Good thing they hadn't started heading back to Kansas yet.

"That's fine," Officer Ryan replied. "Like I said, he's gonna sober up in the drunk tank, and we'll hold him until you get here."

Cas in the drunk tank sounded either utterly ridiculous or horribly wrong, but Dean wouldn't know which until he got there. He hung up with the officer and then stood to go bang on the motel's bathroom door. "Sam! Get dressed. We need to leave now."

"What? Why?" Sam shouted over the spray of the shower.

"Cas is in jail." Dean turned to grab his duffel off the floor and stuff the few of his scattered belongings into it.

The door swung open a moment later and Sam stuck his head out, hair sopping wet. " _What_?"

"Just got a call from the police station. Apparently Cas was arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge." He snatched up his jacket and slipped it on.

Sam made a few sputtering sounds, but ducked back into the bathroom. A minute later he reemerged, fully dressed. "Well is Cas okay?"

"Dunno. Officer said he was."

"Cas getting drunk is not okay," Sam pressed. "And, shit, it took an entire liquor store the last time. You think the case with the angels being killed was that bad?"

Dean shrugged. He really had no idea, and yeah, he was concerned, but Cas wasn't dead, wasn't in the hands of angels or demons. Honestly, being stuck in human jail was pretty tame compared to the host of other things that could have gone wrong.

Dean slung his bag over his shoulder. "We can ask when we go get him."

* * *

They drove straight through and arrived around 10:00 the next morning. Dean hoped Officer Ryan really would keep Cas there; he'd tried calling the angel's cell a couple of times after eight, but it'd gone straight to voicemail.

He and Sam went inside the police station, but Dean was the only one who pulled out his badge to show the front desk. "Hey. Agent Stills. I got a call about my buddy being here."

The young officer frowned, but then nodded quickly. "Oh yes. Ryan said to expect you. His shift ended four hours ago, but he told me you were coming." He got up and came around the counter. "This way."

They followed him back to the holding cells, empty at this point in the morning save for one lone figure. Dean pulled up short in dismay at the sight of Castiel, one angel of the Lord looking anything but. He was sitting on the cell's bench in the corner, shoulders slumped forward, head in his hands. His coat was absolutely filthy and splotched with a myriad of stains from top to bottom.

"Hey, pal, your friends are here," the officer called as he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Cas whipped his head up, eyes widening as he saw the Winchesters.

The officer turned back to Dean and Sam. "I'll get his personal effects together, have 'em ready up front."

"Thank you," Sam said as the young man left.

Dean took a step inside the cell when Cas didn't get up, and gave the ragged-looking angel a thorough once-over. God, he did smell like booze. Dean let out a low whistle. "Jeez, man, what the hell happened to you? You go on a bender again?"

Cas leveled a dark glower at him. "As I tried to explain to the officers, a bottle got broken and spilled on me."

Dean flicked his gaze over the stained coat again. "That and other crud, apparently."

"Are you okay?" Sam asked with much more tact and open concern.

Cas deflated and suddenly looked incredibly weary. The dark circles under his eyes seemed more prominent than usual, too. "It's been a very trying day."

"You mean yesterday?" Dean said.

Cas canted his head up toward the ceiling as though he might be able to see through the windowless walls. "Is it morning?"

"Yeah."

"Thank god."

Sam's brows rose dubiously, and even Dean was surprised by that. "What happened?" Sam asked.

Cas leaned back against the wall. "I discovered that Kelly is now with Dagon, the Prince of Hell. I ran into some of Dagon's demons, and they had a sigil that temporarily weakened my grace. I only started feeling it again an hour ago. My phone got broken in the fight, otherwise I would have called you. Then my truck broke down outside of town, and I had to walk back. When I finally found a phone to call you, I was interrupted by a robbery. That's when the bottle of alcohol got smashed over my head." Cas sighed heavily. "I decided to rest in a park, but apparently that is not allowed, even though parks are peaceful oases in the middle of urban developments and are meant to be tranquil retreats."

Dean's eyebrows had climbed higher and higher with each unbelievable addition Cas kept adding to his story, and he exchanged a bewildered look with Sam before clearing his throat. "Yeah, that qualifies as a pretty crappy day."

Cas ducked his gaze almost ashamedly. "Thank you for coming," he half mumbled. "Now can you please get me out of here?"

He sounded so wretched and pitiful that Dean didn't have the heart to deliver a light jab at the angel's expense.

"Yeah, you're good to go. Come on." He gestured for Cas to get up, and eyed him carefully as he moved a bit stiffly. Cas had said his grace had been weakened by a sigil, which meant what exactly? Cas always downplayed hits he took, so Dean resolved to keep an eye on him.

They headed back out to the front desk where the officer had Cas's few belongings, including his busted cell phone, in a small tray. Cas hastily shoved everything into his pockets and then made a beeline for the exit. Dean and Sam had to quicken their pace to catch up with him, but Cas paused at the Impala and glanced down at his clothes with a pensive frown. After a long moment of staring intensely at the stains, he let out an exasperated sigh.

"I'm not- I don't want to sully your upholstery."

Dean narrowed his eyes. Translation: his grace still wasn't up to fixing something as simple as fabric. "The backseat has seen worse. But do you want a change of clothes?"

Cas shook his head. "No, thank you."

Dean was fine with that, actually; it'd be a pretty good indicator of Cas getting better once he was able to fix his coat.

"Where's your truck?" he asked.

Cas waved a hand vaguely in a southerly direction. "If it's even still there."

"Well, if it isn't, we'll track it down," Dean assured him. "For now, let's find a motel, get some donuts, and wait for your mojo to recharge. Then I'll see about fixing your truck."

Cas looked up, genuine relief and gratitude written across his face. "Thank you, Dean."

"No problem." He went around and climbed in behind the wheel, Cas taking the back and Sam sliding up front on the passenger side. Dean glanced in the rearview mirror at Cas, who'd dropped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.

Sam also craned his neck around to look at the angel. "Today will be better, Cas," he promised.

Cas opened his eyes and gave them both a weary half-smile. "It already is."


End file.
